


It's Only Fair

by RosieTheRo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Gen, Historical References, Soviet Era, Starvation, graphic cannibalism, kink meme de-anon, non-permanent death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9398834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieTheRo/pseuds/RosieTheRo
Summary: "They know he's mad. Maybe they're going mad too, and that's why it's so easy to justify doing this.They're too hungry to care anymore though."(Please heed warnings in the tags)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Is this the darkest thing I've ever written?? Probably.
> 
> First posted on the kink meme a couple years ago, edited slightly before I posted it here.
> 
> But uh, yeah, if you're expecting my usual cuteness and positivism..... you're not gonna find it here. Keep reading at your own discretion.

They're lucky he likes vodka as much as he does. It takes such a huge dose of sedatives to knock him out, they need something very strong to mask the flavor. 

They don't knock him out for his sake. In the state they're in, he could snap them in half with a well-placed blow. They don't care if he feels anything. They just don't want him to be able to fight back. If they weren’t so brittle and he wasn’t so strong, they might even want to keep him awake for this.

It's his fault they're like this anyways. Him and his damn collectivization. It's only fair he gives back some of what he's taken, right? Besides, there's so much of him; so much muscle, fat, and flesh. He's bigger than any of them, especially now, when they're all thin, weak, and starving. He should want to share it all, right? Isn't that what he's all about now? No one should have more than the other, right? 

It's only fair.

They know he's mad. Maybe they're going mad too, and that's why it's so easy to justify doing this.

They're too hungry to care anymore though.

Getting Russia up on the table is almost as hard as breaking into his office to drug his favorite drink was, but they manage. Lithuania and Estonia haul him up by the shoulders, Latvia yanking on his scarf to pull him on. They don't bother being gentle. Heaving up all that weight is a struggle, but it reminds them just how _much_ is there, more than enough to go around, more than enough for all three. 

The house is empty except for them and Russia. Other nations are busy with this or that, none of them will be back for a few days yet. It's rare for this to happen. This is the only chance they'll get.

They take it.

Estonia and Latvia strip Russia while Lithuania heads to the adjacent kitchen. They're not graceful or gentle, ripping off buttons and sending them scattering or tearing fabric if it gets caught under him. Bit by bit, pale skin is revealed, and they can see the muscles on his arms, the fat on his belly, just so, _so_ much meat, surely more than he needs by himself. He can afford to share it, just this once.

Latvia's stomach rumbles demandingly, and his face turns pink at how loud it is. Estonia just smiles and ruffles his hair affectionately.

"It’s okay, I'm hungry too," he says, hearing his own belly moan with want. 

Lithuania comes back in, holding the knife block. He places it on the table, then helps the other two pull off what’s left of Russia’s clothes. There’s no awkwardness to it, no embarrassment about his nudity, no more than there would be about handling a pig or a cow in a butcher’s shop.

Russia is naked now, laying on his back on the table, dead asleep, and the trio pauses. It’s almost awkward, all of them standing around him, watching the giant nation sleeping before them. They’re a little unsure, a little stunned that they’re actually going to do this, but more than anything, they’re relieved. They’ve been starving for years. Finally, there’s food on the table again, just for them. 

Now, they just need to start.

Maybe Latvia’s the hungriest, or maybe he’s just the least patient, but he grabs the first knife. It’s a large carving knife, sturdy and sharp and clean of rust. His little hands are shaking, so he grips the knife tightly to steady himself, knuckles turning white. He realizes he’s breathing very fast, wants to pause to calm down, but his stomach roars and aches with emptiness, _there is so much food there, why aren’t you going for it?!_

He does pause though, if only for a second, to glance at the other two. He thinks he must look frightening, small and shaking and standing there with wide eyes and a raised knife, but they don’t look scared. Lithuania is watching the knife, lower lip caught between his teeth, like he want to yell at Latvia to hurry up and do it already, but even now he’s too kind and polite to rush him. Estonia’s gaze darts between Latvia’s face and Russia’s bicep, which the knife is hovering above, and his eyes are so dark and open so wide, so hungry and longing.

If anything, they’re probably just scared Latvia will want to back out, since he’s generally the most squeamish of the three.

They don’t have to be scared of that, though.

Latvia’s own eyes don’t even catch it when he thrusts his arm down, quickly and clumsily, and plunges the long, wide blade deep into Russia’s upper arm. It catches on bone, and something sadistic and vengeful rears inside of him, and he pushes hard on the handle with both hands, leaning on the knife, sending it in deeper, snapping the bone. The tip of the blade hits the table, forcing him to stop.

Russia has not even stirred.

Latvia’s shaking again, something like desperation and excitement pounding through him. Blood spurts out of the two wounds he’s made, running down the sides of Russia’s arm and pooling across the table top. It comes out in surges along with his pulse, almost matching the pounding heart beat Latvia can hear in his own head.

He must not have moved for a moment, because a hand lands on his, still wrapped around the blade, and he looks up to see Lithuania peering down at him. Something snaps back into reality, and he feels embaressed again.

“That wasn’t a very good first cut, was it?” he asks, abashed, but Lithuania smiles.

“It was fine,” he says gently, and a part of him realizes how insane this is, reassuring the younger nation in a time like this. That part of him kind of wants to burst out laughing, but he just maintains a calm smile. 

He’s amused, but he’s also hungry, so he gently takes the knife from Latvia’s hands and tugs it back up, gracelessly yanking the blade out and sending more blood flying. Some of it splatters onto Russia’s chest and his still sleeping face. More blood splashes across the table, drops falling onto all three of them, their clothes and their faces. Lithuania sees Estonia’s tongue slip out to catch a drop that landed on his lip, and wonders if he likes the taste.

Anything probably tastes good at this point. 

Latvia’s first cut was rather clumsy, but Lithuania makes the most out of it, holding the knife at an angle so he can cut two more lines connecting the first wound, essentially slicing a square out of Russia’s upper arm. With a tug and a jerk, he pries the chunk of flesh away, bringing some chipped bone with it, and it falls to the table top with a wet, dull splat.

All three look up at Russia’s face. His eyes haven’t even fluttered.

Now Lithuania’s hands are shaking slightly as he pulls a piece of meat closer, sliding it across the table, smearing blood. Some drips onto the floor. He’ll worry about that later. 

It’s a good-sized chunk of meat, maybe a couple kilos, mostly muscle but with a small bit of fat and skin still attached. Lithuania picks out the bits of bone, flicking them away carelessly as his fingers turn slick and red with blood. He lifts the knife again, feels the other two watching him closely as he cuts out three slices, each one as even as he can make them. He realizes he’s salivating, and swallows.

He hands out each piece wordlessly, and in a crazy way, it reminds him of when they would sit down to dinner together and he’d hand out the bread. If Poland were there with them complaining that his piece was totally way smaller than everyone else’s, it would almost be a perfect recreation. It’s nostalgic, in a weird way. He feels like laughing again, and wonders if he’s losing his mind.

Maybe Estonia is the impatient one now, as he takes the first bite almost as soon as the meat is in his hands. He digs his teeth in with a hungry grunt, blood gushing out against his tongue and dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t care about being neat, he’s already splattered with blood anyway from when Lithuania yanked out the knife. There’s still drops of it on his glasses. 

Russia tastes like salt and copper. Estonia’s almost surprised there isn’t a tinge of vodka there. He got a bit of a taste from the blood that landed on his lips, and the flesh is pretty similar. He kind of wants to savor it, it’s been ages since he’s gotten the chance to eat actual meat, but as soon as it’s in his mouth his stomach wants it, aching with emptiness and churning. He’s barely chewed before he swallows, almost moaning at the satisfied feeling of having warm, real food sliding down to his belly again, and he’s taking his second bite barely a breath after gulping down the first, Latvia and Lithuania soon doing the same, greedily devouring the bloody chunks of flesh.

When they planned this, they wanted to be as proper as they could. They probably would have even cooked the meat if it didn’t mean taking up too much time, giving Russia a chance to wake up. “Civil” was probably the wrong word, but they wanted to remain composed, they wanted to prove, if only to themselves, that even if they were desperate enough to do this, they were going to do it as cleanly and as neatly as they could. 

Any plans they have are forgotten in a matter of seconds, as soon as their mouths are full of flesh and their stomachs remember what it feels like to be fed. There are no words, no one says anything about it, but all three are quickly consumed by the hunger, and they know it. They don’t bother to fight it, whatever lingering composure they have left wiped away at the first taste and feel of meat in years. With each desperate, starving bite, they fall deeper into the hunger, swallowing faster, chewing less, words replaced with grunts and mumbles as blood splashes over their fingers and faces, dripping onto their clothes and the floor. Estonia finishes his piece first and lunges for the large knife, messily carving another slice out of Russia’s arm. Lithuania is still chewing his last mouthful when he yanks another knife out of the block and plunges it into Russia’s meaty thigh, trying to pull off skin and muscle with his bloodied fingers. Latvia climbs onto the table, takes a third knife, and starts cutting open Russia’s chest, peeling his skin away from his ribcage and exposing his organs. He bashes the ribs with the handle of the knife, splintering them, giving him access to the warm, pulsing organs underneath. Blood pools farther across the table and starts spilling onto the floor. They don’t bother to check if he’s still asleep anymore. They don’t even care he’s still alive while they devour him. Maybe his eyelashes flutter once or twice, but that doesn’t matter as Estonia peels back his lids and plucks his eyeballs out with the tip of a knife, rolling his tongue across them before biting down, making them burst between his teeth. They don’t even notice that his heart is still beating right up until Latvia yanks it out and eats it in three bites.

Maybe they are mad. But, if they are, it was Russia who made them mad. It was Russia who took away their humanity and civility with fear and oppression, broke them until they were the starving, grunting things that lost all control at the mere sight of a potential meal.

Russia has torn their lives away from them. Now, they’re tearing him apart.

It’s only fair.

It was just after sundown when they laid Russia out on the table. By the time they’re done eating, the sky is turning pale grey with the oncoming sunrise.

In the dining room, what’s left of Russia is scattered haphazardly across the table; a disembodied head with no eyes or tongue, its skull cracked open and chunks of brain missing, an empty torso cavity, miscellaneous leg and arm bones, including some bits still covered in skin and muscle, places that were too bony or difficult to pull the flesh off. What’s left of his main body have been carved to almost a skeleton, turned and flopped over gracelessly on the table to reach his back as well, the remnants of his intestines spilling out into a puddle of blood. Shattered ribs are scattered everywhere. Somehow, a lone foot has wound up on the other side of the dining room, sitting in its own pool of blood.

Estonia has to lean against the table to stay upright. He feels dizzy and heavy, staring down at himself in a bit of a daze. His front is a mess, everything from his cheeks to his shoes splattered in blood, turning his dark blue uniform nearly black. His belly feels tight and strained, too full for his clothes, so he slips a hand under his jacket and clumsily undoes his belt and fly, grunting with relief now that his waistband isn’t pinching him so tightly. Even then, the buttons on his shirt and jacket are much snugger than they were before, and he feels somewhat abashed at letting himself go like that. He doesn’t think he’s ever eaten this much in his entire life, but, he doesn’t hate how it feels. Far from it, in fact. 

Latvia thinks he might throw up, but it’s not from disgust. He’s just so, so _full_ , his stomach strained to its limits, making an obvious bulge on his scrawny little body. While his belly was demanding to be filled before, it now whines and gurgles, aching from being so stuffed. A wave of nausea hits him and he leans back against the wall with a muffled whimper, eyes shut, trying to breathe slowly and deeply. He’s not going to let himself be sick; he’d be crazy to just vomit up everything he’s eaten after going hungry for so long. He rubs his stomach tenderly through his tight shirt, hoping to soothe it, and swallows thickly. The thought that he had a part of Russia inside of him crosses his hazy mind and he feels an odd thrill at it. He feels like he’s holding Russia prisoner in his belly. He likes that feeling. 

Lithuania is slumped over in a chair, looking at the blood splattered across the floor, the table, himself, and the other two, along with the dismembered corpse sprawled out in front of him. It’s going to be a real pain to clean up, he thinks with a grimace, but he’s far too full and sleepy to feel truly annoyed right now. His bloated stomach hurts awfully, but the pain of overeating feels so much better than hunger pangs from starvation. He looks out at the dining room, disregarding the blood for now, instead looking at his two companions, Latvia sitting on the floor with his back to a wall and Estonia leaning heavily on the table. He feels an odd surge of pride and accomplishment, seeing them well fed for the first time in years. Even though Latvia looks rather sick and Estonia seems ready to pass out, he’s sure they regret it as much as he does; which is to say, not at all.

Slowly, with a heavy groan, Lithuania heaves himself out of his chair, swaying on his feet as he wants nothing more than to sit back down and fall asleep. But, they have a job to do, if they want to get away with this without Russia or anyone else finding out.

With one hand cupped under his swollen belly, he shuffles over to Latvia and nudges his shoulder. “Come on, we’re not done yet.”

Latvia whines, but pushes himself up anyway, leaning back on the wall for support. He belches, covering his mouth and looking a little embaressed. 

“You coming?” Lithuania asks, looking back at Estonia.

“Give me a minute,” Estonia replies with a grunt, running a hand through his short hair and leaving streaks of blood behind. He takes a breath and pushes himself upright, then grabs Russia’s still-attached leg and starts pulling him off the table. 

Lithuania takes Russia by the shoulders, hooking his fingers into his collar bone to keep hold of him, and the two drag him off the table and across the floor, out of the dining room. Latvia follows, his arms full of dismembered pieces, including Russia’s head. A little greedily, behind the other twos’ backs, he dips his head and tears another bite of brain matter from Russia’s skull. When else is he going to get the chance to do this again? Even if Russia didn’t taste very good, just the thought of consuming the nation that’s already taken so much from them fills him with a warm, tingling sort of glee, enough to make him want to overindulge even more than he already has.

The floors between the dining room and Russia’s bedroom are all hardwood, and Lithuania already kicked aside the rugs before they got started. Upstairs, they dump Russia’s remains in his bed, organizing them so they’re roughly in their proper anatomical place. The bed is soon covered in blood, but that’s not a very urgent matter. After Russia heals, there will still be a short time before he fully wakes up, when they can move him again and dispose of the soiled sheets. That also gives them some time before they have to clean up the trails of blood in the halls, and the giant puddles of it all over the kitchen. Which is good, as that means they can spend the rest of the day and night sleeping off their big meals, letting their strained stomachs churn through all that meat. 

Their bed is tiny, but it’s a welcome reprieve as they clumsily strip and collapse onto it, pressing in close as they’ve always had to. The thin, scratchy sheets and drafty room aren’t as unbearable as they usually are, now that they can go to bed with full bellies instead of being painfully hungry. It isn’t long before all of them are unconcious, and they sleep better than they have in years.

The next day finds Latvia scrubbing the dining room floor, soap suds turning pink as he cleans up the blood. Estonia is in the back yard, keeping watch of the old furnace back there, making sure the all soiled clothes and bedsheets are completely burned up. Russia, fully reformed but still unmoving, lies dead on his bedroom floor while Lithuania flips his mattress over and applies new sheets, hiding the stains. He drags Russia back into his bed and leaves several empty bottles around him, sure he can trick Russia into thinking the two-day-long gap in his memory is from alcohol. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened. 

Estonia comes back in, having buried the ashes, and he and Lithuania help with the rest of the blood, cleaning the hallways, the stairs, and the bath tub where they washed themselves off that morning. They’re in a relatively merry mood, chatting and even laughing about last night, from admitting how embarrassing it was to lose control like that, to reliving the intense satisfaction they got from pulling it off.

They work hard and get the house spotless by evening. They don’t even need to break to eat; they’re still quite full.

By the time Russia wakes up the next morning, feeling hungover and achy, no one would notice anything different in the Soviet household. Lithuania would keep everything clean and tidy and prepare food, Estonia would keep careful track of administrative duties, and Latvia would keep out of trouble and do what he is told. Russia would be as looming and domineering as ever, eerily friendly and brutally controlling, and the three Baltic States would keep their heads down and follow orders. Over the following days, the rest of the Soviet countries would return to the house, however unwillingly, and life would go on. No one would know Russia was drugged and eaten alive by three of his smallest subordinates, not even himself.

No one would notice anything different.

Except, maybe, if one looked close enough, one might notice that Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania all seemed to have mysteriously put on a bit of weight recently.


End file.
